


crimson lions

by inallmybitterness



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied sylvix, i deal with my own emotions by making felix suffer, im so bad at tags, lots of blood, no beta we die like all of Felix's friends here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 12:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20948048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inallmybitterness/pseuds/inallmybitterness
Summary: As used as he was to the bloody carnage of war, the shades of crimson flowing through Gronder as his friends fell were unlike anything Felix had seen before.





	crimson lions

**Author's Note:**

> Context: Battle at Gronder, in which Dimitri is felled and Felix has been recruited by another house.
> 
> Context turned out messy, but hopefully Felix's feelings can come across regardless.

Blood ran in various shades of red, and he was well acquainted with most of them. Some were brighter, some were deeper, it all depended on what type of injury he inflicted upon his enemy. Stains in his clothes formed a crimson mosaic over the white and blue fabric and the brown leather, covering the base colors completely or blending with them to create a different hue. Fresh, dried, on one’s skin, on a blade, on the ground, creating a dry crust or being washed away by sweat or rain—no matter where or how it presented itself, the sight of blood was far too familiar to Felix.

Even then, not even a million years of fighting bloody battles would have prepared him for the distinctively crimson rivers that flowed their way through Gronder Field.

He was not prepared to see Sylvain swamped in carmine, tainting his armor—his face—the parted lips that had once promised Felix they would stay together until the day they died. One streak of ginger hair falling between lifeless eyes that stared back at him in desolation: two traits of his that used to pique Felix's attention more often that he would've liked to admit, now stripped of their spark and warmth and eveything that came together to make him _Sylvain_. 

Because Sylvain was no more. _"And he broke his promise, the idiot,"_ Felix thought. Although as usual, despite addressing his reprimand at his former companion, the one it was truly meant for was himself.

He was not prepared for the scarlet fountain that an arrow had opened in Ingrid’s neck, its liquid contents gushing out violently and dying out faster than he (_hoped_) expected. Felix saw the moment she was pierced by that arrow and fell from her stark white pegasus to the tainted muddy ground, and though she was not facing him as she landed, she had shot one final glance towards him—merely a fraction of a second, the very last time he would ever see her face in life—as if she wanted to tell him something. Perhaps she wanted to be certain he would remember her, perhaps she intended to admonish him, perhaps it was something else entirely. He would never know.

His chest burned in desperate need to blame something, _anything_: them, their rulers, the idealistic knighthood that his brother and friends had devoted their final moments to. However, he knew he couldn't. What made him think he had the right to point fingers when he was the one who had deflected, clinging to his own selfishness? When he was so blind to think he would've been ready to face those people in battle, as if it were nothing but another sparring session?

Truly, he had no such right; and like an arrogant child, it was too late and too painful when he found _how _unprepared he was. He realized as much when he felt sick seeing Sylvain’s body to his right—_facing him_, as if he still had any foolish hope—and Ingrid’s to his left—_facing away from him,_ as if she did not want to see the face of the man who had left his friends and country behind.

His fists tightened to the point his knuckles were probably pale under his gloves; and yet, they were still not nearly as tight as his chest and his throat.

His throat, resisting the urge to vomit at the overbearing, sickening smell of blood that assaulted his senses to remind him of the consequences of his choices, churning his stomach with violence that could not compare to what his (_former_) friends had been through.

His chest, feeling the ghost of the pain his (_former_) friends felt when the swords and arrows dragged the life out of their bodies and cast them away to the reddened soil that would harbor their graves.

And his eyes! They burned with tears that would refuse to come out every time he caught sight of any shade of that supposedly familiar _red_. A color that used to be a testimony to his army’s victory and his skill with a blade, a seal on the price to be paid for more peaceful times, now only denounced his betrayal. He tried shutting them as tight as possible—just like his knuckles, and his throat, and his chest—in a futile attempt at escaping. As if phantasmagorical _red _shadows would not dance behind his closed eyelids, mocking him for his cowardice, telling him there was no escape from what he had done.

He opened his eyes again and instinctively lifted his head to breathe, only to be blinded by that dreadful color as it engulfed another scene he was not yet prepared to witness.

Red drenching the blue cape of the prince he knew all too well, the banner of the Blue Lions barely discernible beneath the stains.

Red spilled on the ground, tainting the moss and covering the rocks, streaming out wounds opened by weapons deftly handled to breach his armor.

Red was the arm lifting an axe above his head, preparing to strike as the two exchanged words that went unheard, due partly to the distance between them, partly to the insufferable ringing in Felix's ears.

He tended to call Dimitri a beast. A boar.

What he now saw was more akin to a cornered animal: not a boar, but a helpless pig standing before its slaughterer.

Although he had lifted his head in an attempt to get some air, his breath hitched upon the sight. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes were paralyzed, unable to close or look away despite the terror creeping up his soul.

The axe came down, and he felt like the world stopped turning.

* * *

Red.

Red was the blood flowing through Gronder Field like canals of death and sorrow and regret.

Red were his hands as they closed Sylvain’s eyes—touched Ingrid’s hair—brushed against Dimitri’s face.

Red was his own face, as his bloodstained hands pressed against it to muffle his loud, desperate cries. The tears had finally started to flow and his voice had finally come out, bringing to the surface all of the guilt and despair that had been pooling at the bottom of his being.

Red was the path he had chosen to walk, littered by the crimson flowers that were his friends’ lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Felix keeps mementos of people he lost. I like to think he would keep one of Ingrid's ribbons, hence why he touches her hair.


End file.
